Corn what?!?
For those unbelievers, or those not fortunate enough to see it on web cam...
So far I've recieved more 'positive' comments then negative ones.... Which leaves me guessing either I look ok, or my friends know that I have such low self-esteem that they choose not to be completely honest.
The most frequent response I've heard is something along the lines of "Wow... I was expecting you to look like a freakin moron... but you can actually kinda pull off that look..."
Which causes me to ponder... is that a compliment? or well...
*
Of Legolas Greenleaf and such...
There is something to be said of the masterpiece Tolkien crafted. No other work has ever been so astoundingly capable of moving me to desire a few more Orcs in my life.
I find myself desperately desiring adventure, and yet a fair damsel in need of rescue is nowhere to be found. There is no evil ring requiring banishment available. Heck, I can't even find a bloody cat stuck in a tree....
Now I understand, I'm no Legolas Greenleaf. I'm not even close to as dashing as Orlando Bloom, and there is no way I could mount a horse at full gallop by merely reaching beneath him, retrieving his reins and, then in one silky motion, swinging myself under the beast's neck and onto his back. Just watching the movie births the desire in me to move away from the couch and utilize the weights that sit dormant and dusty in my shed.
I crave the excitement and danger to be found in mounting an all out offensive on a power too large for myself alone to overcome.
...
and then I realize, life, the very thing we all take so often for granted, is the greatest adventure any man could ask for. I've spent far too many days that I'll never regain on pointless endeavors.
I don't have any more spare time to waste.
*
Slacker..
Yep. I'm a slacker.
I can't capsulize the anguish I am experiencing today in words.
I forgot my ogo.
*angelo cries in corner*
*
They call me....Copy Cat
c ould
o nly
f ive
f ingers
e ver
e volve
i nto
s even?
n obody
i s
c ertain
e h?
Sweet friend
c learly
a
f ine
f unction
e nhancing,
i nvigorating
n ecessity
e veryday.
Angelo cries... (quick update)
So, yeah. I was bummed and stuff, but now it seems I may not be down for long.
My buddy Roderick, the guy that I made the deal with in the first place, asked the girl that did his hair if she thought she could do mine. Apparently she knows some tricks that will work for my hair. So, now it just comes down to scheduling some time to get together with her.
He did tell me that she pulls harder then anyone he has ever experienced, but also does a better job then anyone he has ever met. Interesting.
Angelo cries.
Well, for those of you that didn't know, I drove up to my school at 6:00a.m. to get my hair braided into cornrows. I know, I know, I'm white...
My buddy and I made a deal, the next time he went to get his hair all fancy, I'd do the same. So I, being a man of my word, awoke at first light and drove thirty minutes to work so that one of the ladies there could assist me in completing my end of the bargain.
All seemed well and fine in the beginning. I had been warned repeatedly that it would hurt due to the simple fact that the hair has to be pulled taught to create the tight look of cornrows, but in my experience, while there was definitely some slight discomfort, pain would be an exaggeration. I should have realized that the project was not going well when Barbara first sighed slightly.
Apparently, African American hair is able to retain the tight braids, due to it's 'nappiness,' much more effectively then the average white guy's hair (aka me). My hair is too 'slippery' and consistently came loose.
So now, I have to go to a 'professional' (man, lots of quotie fingers today) and have weave added to give the additional hold necessary for the style...
After staying up till 2:00a.m. and waking a mere three hours later, I really don't care to think about finding someone else right now, but I'm sure once my buddy notices that I don't have rows of braids running the length of my head he'll immediately be on the phone contacting each and every female he knows that can cornrow.
*
Jazz.
Every day, when walking out to the computer lab, I pass through the 'black hallway,' which has now been turned into our African American Art Museum. Recently, the art has been switched out, old being replaced by new, and a certain piece caught my eye.
Now every day I sit and stare at this piece, created by a group of fifth graders. I can't tell you what it is that I so enjoy. Many times I've tried to pinpoint some fragment of the painting that renders my legs useless and captures my eyes, but I just can't. Quite possibly, it's my love of all things jazz and blues....
Well, regardless of the reason, I thoroughly revel in those five minutes of pleasure every day, and figured I might as well immortalize the work so I can enjoy it free of my location.
*
sicky angelo
Tiny flickering LEDs provide the only light in the darkened room. Lightly painting the walls in red. The house sleeps, quietly murmuring to itself as it shifts and creaks, attempting to find a comfortable position. Faint snoring, muffled by the closed door, can be heard by the only conscious occupant.
Blankets wrapped tightly around his aching body. Tissue littering the floor next to his bed. Two swollen eyes attempt to make out the time. Squinting, and staring uselessly. Every bit of strength his weakened body can muster is used in the simple act of rolling over and stretching for the pair of glasses resting on the bedside bookcase. His eyes lazily adjust to the new found clarity and finally settle on the rows of red.
"3:00 a.m., that's just great" he mutters to himself, wondering if sleep will continue to evade him.
Feebly he replaces the glasses and settles back into the center of the bed. He's slept in this exact spot often for the last few months. On occasion reverting to 'his side' of the bed. Where he used to lay staring at her instead of the glaring red clock, but tonight there is no reassurance in her quiet beauty. Nearly whimpering, he works to rebuild his cocoon and yearn once again for rest. There he lays, silently hoping for sleep.
Again his eyes open. The red glow stinging the two slits where his eyes should be. This time the glasses feel too far away. His hand stretches out and retrieves his nemesis, quietly pulling him close.
"three O' five... dang."
Best thing about today
I'm at home...
sick.
*
REcord
re-pref.Again
I'm not sure just how many takes an average song requires in the studio prior to finally meeting the high standards of those recording it, but I do know the number of times I've had to re-record many of the songs I've written (don't ask), and in all honesty I don't believe I have ever been completely satisfied with any of them. Eh. I really can't say that. I've been perfectly satisfied with them ... as long as I'm the only one that has the opportunity to listen. *wink*
My music is an extremely personal thing, as I'm sure it is for any musician, or any artist for that matter. So much of myself, my personality, the very traits that make me the person I am go into my work that the idea of someone else criticizing that work borders on criticism of the deepest, most intimate portions of my soul.
Not that anyone's opinion is ever invalid. Opinion is necessary. It's what keeps us from just being clones of one another. But, you gotta admit, criticism can sting. Anyone that says it doesn't is either a liar or a ... well, no, they're just a liar.
Maybe I've just been burned one too many times by the people closest to me, but showing off anything I do musically is unequivically the most nerve-wracking experience I've ever been subject too.
I suppose I'm just insecure. Just talking it out is reassuring.
More and more I'm getting to a point that I just don't care what people think. I just write for fun, and as long as I enjoy this outlet then ... who cares. But every once in a while I remember the sting, and all I can do is pull the covers back over my head and pray that sleep comes quickly...
Bet you felt like a big man when you crushed my dreamsaspirations of a life you never wanted me to leadtrap me hererusted cageheld you tightbut I can't stay~the weets
*
Something fishy this way comes...
So. I log on to my blog today. You know, just to look at the comments and consider what noteworthy events have scuttled across my path. Merrily I wander through the blogger dash then waddle through the posts ...
What's this I see?!? Yumyum a contributor?
My mind races through the previous night's events.
Was I drunk? No, no... couldn't be. I've never been drunk in my life. Was it that cigar ... no, nevermind. Hrm... what the heck was it then?
Could I of somehow accidentally typed in rutherford's email address in the members control thinking I was just inviting her to be a friend... na..
Wait, maybe when I removed myself as the admin the durga personality of rutherford knew, and automatically tried to assist me, thinking I was jersey.... oh, wait, those were fictional characters .. man, I need to get out more.
hrm...
well...
*light flickers on*
na...
*light fades*
uh...
*light ramps up to average brightness*
no...
*light fades*
HEY!
*light showers the room in an iridescent glow*
nope...
*light unscrews itself, struts over to angelo, slaps him, and precedes to slam the door hard enough while exiting to cause the three pictures in the vicinity to come crashing to the ground*
...
dang. Third one this week.
...
oh, wait.
PITA!
*
Moron
I'm a moron.
I'm a moron.
I'm a moron.
...
Yep, pretty well covers it.
note to self: do not uncheck admin box next to your own name
v day (update)
Sorry to interrupt....
So. Yeah.
I was all bummed about the whole first-Valentine's-on-my-own experience, then, completely out of the blue, I receive a box of chocolates and a card from one of the coolest chicks I know.
Me = blessed
um... well... continue on.
*
blog grrr....
Dude.
This thing is sweet.
It's nice to have a space to rant away the crap that clutters my hat rack. This whole journaling thing is new to me. The idea of putting pen to pape... or well, finger to key, and immortalizing the train wreck that is my thought process is a quaint little mixture of Absurd and Mind Numbing, with just a hint of Interesting ... to keep me coming back, of course.
and while this concept is all well and good as a whole, there is a particular item (as with the majority of things I find intriguing) that taunts me.
comments...Comments... or, better stated, the lack of comments, continues to nag me. The tiny bit of green text, the little tag that constantly reminds me -- 0 comments. No kidding, Sherlock.
Granted. I have only had this storage space for my thoughts for a few days .. ok, two days. And while that should be consolation, it should for all practical purposes wreak havok on the ability of that bit of green text to mock me, it doesn't.
Stupid green text. Drawing me out just by your color. As if my envy of other comment counters has caused a jade filter to fall before my eyes.
Jerk. I fart in your general direction.
Nicest thing I heard today:"I like your blog. with every post, i like you more."
~pita
*
v day
Heh. So, I work at an elementary school. Valentine's Day is rapidly approaching and, as is the tradition, our school is overrun with Valentine's Day parties.
Streamers are strung, a plethora of multicolored hearts are strewn about. Each and every hallway is so cluttered with red and white paper that any firefighter that entered this place would instantly faint at the sheer thought of the fire hazard such displays pose.
To say it's inescapable is an exquistite example of understatement.
and now the music starts. The cafetorium, yeah, cafetorium... you know those schools that are too poor to build an auditorium or a gym and have to settle with using their cafeteria as both... it's filled with the most abhorrent sounds that ever chanced to meet these ears. Some mix of country and bluegrass written for children and apparently sung by someone with the talent of a bullfrog.
Man. I'm cheery today.
Actually, I really am.
I had considered going the whole Valentine's-Day-is-the-bain-of-my-existence route, but it just isn't true. I'm a big softy. A romantic through and through. There is absolutely nothing I would cherish more then to have someone, a specific someone, to adorn with whatever gifts I could muster and then serenade her into the early morning... but I don't. Eh. I'm not the kind of guy that could let my "lack of" drive me to ruin someone else's fun. V day is great. Me likey. I just want to join in the fun too.
eh.
*
Switch
OK, ok....
enough with the pleasantries.
today seems like one of those days where my mind wanders... then is drawn back just long enough to look at what I'm supposed to be doing, giggle, and then return back to wandering.
Focus. Well, in all actuality, my complete lack of focus, is
so overwhelming. Even trying to focus on said lack of focus disables my already exhausted ability to focus to the point that I can't even focus on how I can't focus.
I'm tired now.
Less interesting things.Nothing here's the same with me. Switchfoot couldn't of described my life any more accurately then they did with that single lyric.
Everyone, and when I say 'everyone', I mean those individuals I come into contact with during the day to day, likes to say that change is good. Apparently change is this ultra beneficial parasite of life. Sure it goes into hiding at times, but no one has a cure for it and you can be sure it's just waiting around the corner, ready to pounce.
Eh. Maybe I'm just sentimental. On occasion I catch a glimpse of fragments of who I was and relief washes over me just knowing that piece has past. But too many times I've recounted some long forgotten trait, a passion, a longing and cursed change for it's interference.
*:P
Yeah, so...
Hi, again. and stuff.
A girl
So, there was once this girl. She lived at this place. and then she left. The end.
. . .
There. I figured if you're gonna come and read my blog, I might as well tell you a story.
You're welcome.
